


Come back to me

by Hatsepsut



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Lactation, Smut, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsepsut/pseuds/Hatsepsut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris leaves he City of Chains after the night he spends with Hawke; heavy words had been exchanged and everything between them looked hopeless. Eleven months later, he is back, determined to win the affection of the woman he can't forget again. But she seems to have a secret...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rose Moon 24](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Rose+Moon+24).



> This is present for Rose Moon 24 who was my 500th reviwer for Don't Bet on it. Thank you very much dear, I am over the moon you liked it!
> 
> As always, Rose Moon 24 was given the option to keep this private- it is a present, after all - but decided to share it with the rest of you.
> 
> Daddy Fenris. I can't get enough of him. *winks*
> 
> My thanks to MidnightMoonCat for an amazing beta job *hugs* and my heart-felt wishes to Defiant Anjeru for things to straighten up soon. Honey, I love you, you know that.

As he walked through the gates leading into Kirkwall, Fenris took the time to look around and scan for any change that had happened during his absence. Merchants still peddled their wares and crowds still milled around the busy market, nobles were still as haughty as always and templars watched with unflinching, vigilant eyes through their helmets.

Hawke should be at home at this early time of the day, or getting ready to go on another mission; or even just now waking up to a hangover after spending the night gambling and drinking at The Hanged Man.

Come to think of it, even if she wasn't there, there could never be a better place to go and learn news of her.

For almost a full year he had been away from the city. After their night together, things had been tense between them, but the Qunari trouble which had culminated in their attempt to take over the city had not let them hash things out between them. There had always been important things to do, crises to be averted, people to kill.

Only after the Qunari had been defeated and Hawke had been named Champion had they finally had the chance to speak. As he was making his way down the dark stairs to Lowtown and to The Hanged Man, he replayed that whole conversation over and over in his mind, the angry words they had exchanged, the hurt and the frustration. His eyes fell to the red band he was still wearing around his wrist, faded and nearly threadbare now, and he sighed.

 _I need an answer, Fenris,_  she had said.  _Why do you keep wearing that thing around your wrist? What do I mean to you?_

The answer now, nearly a year later, was easy:  _everything. You mean everything._  But back then, he had remained stubbornly quiet and had watched her eyes grow sad and then angry.

 _I was just a cheap thrill, wasn't I? A little roll in the hay. You just wanted to see if you could..._ her voice had broken and then she had laughed, a mirthless, sad little snicker.  _I am so stupid,_  she had added in a feeble little whisper _. I thought...never mind what I thought...I had hoped...Never mind that too._

She had then turned and left, tossing him one last look over her shoulder.

 _Such a shame, Fenris. We could have been good together_.

 _It never would have worked,_  he had answered, regret thick in his voice _. I cannot do this. It is too soon, too much. I am sorry._

 _Yeah, I'm sorry too,_  she had tossed him, not even bothering to look back.  _You're free of me, Fenris. I won't bother you again._

And she hadn't.

She hadn't spoken to him, she hadn't stopped by to take him on missions, she hadn't even acknowledged him when he had showed up uninvited to the Hanged Man one night. Her hands had just tightened around the mug of ale she had been holding and she had kept her head down, not even speaking, until he'd been forced to leave.

Two days later, he'd left Kirkwall.

He had ended up in Ferelden, and from there on to Denerim, where he had impressed the leader of a mercenary group enough during a scuffle with some bandits in a back alley to be offered a position in the group.

Eleven months had passed, and now here he was, back in Kirkwall. He had been asking himself why he had decided to come back millions of times, and the answer was easy.

Living without her hurt too much.

He had to get her back. He had to find a way. Maker, he couldn't sleep without her, he couldn't eat, he could hardly breathe.

He whispered her name as he crossed the threshold of the tavern, hoping she would be here, praying she hadn't found someone else to replace him. Fear gripped his insides that he would find her in another man's arms; Anders' or Sebastian's. Why would a woman like Hawke have waited for someone like him, who had abandoned her in the middle of the night, and not even bothered to tell her goodbye before leaving?

Chances were she had moved on. Chances were, he would find her with someone else, happy as she deserved to be, not a single thought spared for him, unless it was of disgust.

But he could hope, couldn't he?

* * *

Varric spotted him nearly as soon as he stepped into the tavern. His eyes grew a little large, but that was the only sign he gave of being surprised.

"So, the broodical son returns," he drawled sarcastically as Fenris neared his table responded with a magnanimous gesture towards the chair to Fenris' raised eyebrow.

"Greetings to you as well, Varric," Fenris chose to ignore the jab. No doubt all his former companions were bound to be put off by the way he had disappeared. "I trust you and Bianca are well?"

Varric leaned back n his chair. "Let's dispense with the bullshit, elf," he coldly replied. "Where have you been?"

Fenris caught the waitress' eye and ordered a glass of wine. He then turned to the dwarf that was eyeing him with barely veiled annoyance. "What does it matter?" he asked, shrugging. "I am back."

Something flashed in Varric eyes. He leaned back onto the table and his voice lowered to an angry whisper. "You shit for brains little twit. Do you have any idea how worried we all were? How worried Hawke was?"

Something warmed in his chest at the thought that Hawke and all his friends –yes, they were his friends; he saw that now- were worried for him. Then a pang went through his heart at the thought that Hawke had been concerned for him, had even looked for him, worrying that perhaps slavers had captured him. Damn his stupidity, he could have left a letter.

He bowed his head. "Truth be told, I thought she would have been relieved to see me go."

Varric huffed. "Relieved? You little nug-humbing sodding shit. She was frantic."

A corner of Fenris' mouth curled up despite his will.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, or so help me..."

"Fenris?" a voice interrupted Varric and he looked behind him, then swore under his breath and looked away.

Fenris slowly turned, to see Hawke standing behind him, dressed in an impressive suit of armour, her eyes wide with shock.

"Hawke!" he gasped out. Maker she looked so beautiful, more beautiful than he remembered.

"You're alive...You came back." Her eyes widened even more with shock and something else, something he couldn't really identify. It looked like fear, like trepidation. He couldn't put his finger on it.

He noticed Anders was right behind her and narrowed his eyes as the healer placed a hand on her shoulder, then leaned in to whisper something in her ear. She nodded absentmindedly and then her shoulders stiffened and she looked away for a few minutes, swallowing heavily. When she next turned to him, her face was composed to a calm, polite mask.

"I'm glad you're alive, Fenris," she smiled and again, Fenris was gripped with a surprising sense of anxiety, as if there was something hidden in her eyes that involved him, and it wasn't good.

"What is the matter, Hawke?"

"Nothing," she smiled, but it was forced, to say the least. "Are you well? Where have you been?"

"A mercenary job, in Denerim. I joined a group. The Crimson Oars"

"Good for you," she said absentmindedly. Then she raised her head and offered him a bright, completely fake smile. "Are you going back soon, then?"

Fenris hesitated. She seemed almost anxious for him to get out of town. What was going on here? He knew she wouldn't actually be expecting him with open arms, not after the way they had parted, with bitter words and accusations, but this was...this was strange. Yes, he had been gone without a trace for almost a year –eleven months, one week, two days and about three hours, not that he was  _counting_  or anything- but he expected her to at least be relieved he was well once she saw him again.

"No, I have come back to stay," he offered, hesitantly, and his hackles rose in alarm at the way she paled and her eyes widened. "If you would have me again," he mumbled, and then hasted to add, with a nervous little cough, "In your group, I mean."

"We already have a new swordsman," Anders spat. "We don't need you."

Fenris completely ignored the abomination and focused all his attention on Hawke, waiting for her answer with bated breath.

She swallowed again, then looked down at her hands, then again at his face.

"I don't think so, Fenris," she said, and the regret and pain in her voice nearly slew him.

"Give me a chance, Hawke," his voice dropped to an intimate, cajoling octave. He saw a tremor rack her body and had to bite the inside of his cheek not to smile. He could still affect her like no other man, just by the sound of his voice.

Hawke tightened her lips and shook her head before walking out.

But Fenris had gotten all the information he needed from this little encounter. She was still single, she was still affected by him, she still had feelings for him.

Hope blossomed in his heart. He would find a way to win her back.

* * *

A week later, he was frustrated enough to want to punch his fist through a brick wall. She avoided him like the plague. He hadn't seen her for more than a few minutes; she had locked herself into her home and every time he tried to get in to see her, there was somebody there to block the door; Bodhan, or Anders or Sebastian. Aveline had forcibly thrown him out the one time he had snuck into her mansion, determined to talk to her. Varric didn't even talk to him.

All his former companions seemed incensed with him; up to a point he could understand why. But after he had apologised to every single one of them –even the abomination- for the worry he had caused them, he had hoped they would relent. He had hoped at least one of them, Isabela perhaps, or Varric, would have been his allies in his effort to win Hawke back.

In his desperation he turned to the only person that had a sad, compassionate look on her face whenever Hawke shut him out and refused to even look at him.

Merrill. The blood mage.

That was why he was here, in that sad part of town that reeked of desperation and destitution: the Alienage.

He banged on her door, calling himself ten kinds of a fool. He didn't trust Merrill, he never had, but the elven girl was his best chance right now.

When Merrill opened the door, she stood there just watching him with those huge green eyes of hers, silently contemplating something, worrying her lip between her teeth.

He didn't say anything, just stared back, but some of his desperation must have shown on his face because she sighed, mumbled something in elven under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse, and then stepped back.

"I know I will regret this," she said.

He walked into that hovel she called a home and she started fluttering around the room, talking a mile a minute in what was an awkward blubbering, sure to cause him a headache.

"She will probably never forgive me, but I don't think it's right... The Dread Wolf take me, I know she'll never speak to me again, she was adamant that nobody should tell you, but I don't think it's right, Creators help me, I think she should give you a second chance, you can't be that stupid as to throw it all away, I..."

"Merrill." He growled, and watched in hidden amusement how her eyes widened. Had he even used her name before? Probably not.

"Okay, here goes," she drew a deep breath. "Promise not to kill me?"

Fenris' whole body went rigid with trepidation and anticipation. He held his breath.

"She's had a child."

If Merrill had just sprouted a second head, he would have been less shocked.

'A...a ...a child, you said?"

Merrill nodded.

"Your son."

* * *

On the way to her mansion, he was so furious he had to forcibly restrain himself from having his markings flash and scared the nobles milling in the street senseless. Even so, the dark look on his face and the menace he excluded as he walked, his head bowed down, his fists tightened to the point of injuring himself, made people clear the way in front of him.

She'd had his son. She had been pregnant with his baby, and she hadn't told him. Did she know that the last time they had spoken? And even if she didn't, why hadn't she told him the minute he was back?

She wanted to keep his child from him. She wasn't going to tell him. He might have left the city again, and he would never have learned that he was a father.

The word drove a knife through his gut. A father. He was a father. And she hadn't told him.

His rage increased with every step he took towards her estate. He had a right to know. Damn her, he was a father, he had sired a child, and she hadn't told him. Was she so disgusted by him, did she care so little about his feelings that she didn't even give him the courtesy of informing him that their glorious night together had resulted in a child? His child?

Maker, did she hate him that much to keep his child from him?

Cold, furious anger infused every inch of his body. Hadn't she known how much it had hurt him not to have any knowledge of who he was, of his family? Hadn't she known how much he dreamed of having a family of his own?

His step faltered at the though.

A family. A family of his own. His child. His son. And she had kept him from him. It sounded like the worst kind of insult, the worst of dismissals, like he wasn't worth knowing, he wasn't worth being a part of the child whose life he was responsible for.

Did she really think so little of him?

He banged on her door, and Bodahn answered, the usual politely dismissive words ready on his lips.

He pushed past the dwarf, shooting him a look that made his cower in fear. With furious, long strides, he crossed the antechamber and came face to face with Hawke, wide eyes with alarm at Bodahn's shouts of "Messere Fenris is here!".

They stood staring at each other for a few seconds, him almost vibrating with angerand her breathless with fear.

She drew in a deep breath and her hand flew to her throat in panic at the irate look he gave her. "You know."

His lip curled in disgust.

"Where is he?" he spat. "Where is he, Hawke?"

Her eyes darted to her bedroom, and he pushed past her, taking the steps two at the time.

He burst into the room, and the first thing he saw was a small wooden crib, sitting near the bed, bathed in sunlight. A small wooden mobile was gently spinning above it, birds and butterflies in bright, joyful colours.

The sight made him instantly furious, insanely mad.

"When were you planning to inform me that I had sired a child?" he spat at Hawke who had rushed in the room behind him, out of breath and trembling from head to toe.

She drew couple of deep breaths and then stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the crib.

Her chin rose up.

"How was I supposed to find you and tell you, Fenris?"

Fenris' lip curled in an expression of distaste.

"I have been back for more than a week. You should have told me the minute you first saw me."

She huffed. "Really? What was I supposed to say? That the night you regretted spending with me ended up in a child?"

He drew back. "I never said I regretted it."

"You weren't exactly happy about it, though, were you?"

Fenris raised a hand sharply. "Stop this. This has nothing to do with the fact that I have a son, and you wanted to keep him from me. That is unacceptable, Hawke."

"Keep him from you?" her eyes widened in disbelief. "KEEP HIM FROM YOU? You arrogant ass, why do you that this had anything to do with you? It's my son I was protecting, you jackass!"

"Protecting him from me?" his ire was enough to make his markings flash. "I do not make it a habit to run my fist through little babies' chests."

"Yes..." she breathed, totally defeated. "Just their hearts."

He snarled, and his hand rose on its own before he realised, by the way she cringed and stiffened, preparing for a blow, that in his anger he had been seconds from hitting her.

The bright blue glow that had infused his body died out, and for a second a terribly vulnerable look crossed his eyes before he closed his eyes and counted to ten, trying to make sense of what she had said.

"You can never love him like he deserves, Fenris," her voice was soft, and sad. She was looking at him with those bright amber eyes of hers, tears slipping down her face. "Letting you in his life would be just...cruel. He deserves a father that will dote on him, that will always be there for him. Can you honestly say you will be that father?"

His eyes flew open and an expression of pure loathing crossed his face.

"So you get to decide this for him? You get to make that choice, just like that? What gives you that right?"

She drew her shoulders up, the iron in her spine stiffening with determination although her heart was breaking inside.

"I get to make this decision for both of us. You say that night had nothing to do with this; I say it had  _everything_  to do with it. You walked out on me, on us, that night. You chose not to be here. You turned around and left like a coward in the night, no explanation, no excuse. I was left all alone, went through the months of waiting for him all alone, not even knowing if my baby's father was dead or alive."

Another tear slipped down her face.

"I  _had_  him alone, Fenris. I will raise him alone."

Fenris' gut twisted at the images her words brought to his mind and his anger died, completely overshadowed by the anguish her words caused. In his anger at having found out, he hadn't stopped to consider how having a child alone had been for her, what she had gone through. He struggled to remain angry, to regain the righteous indignation he had felt storming the streets towards her house, but the pain lashing his heart at the sight of her tears didn't let him.

Guilt mixed in with the pain, chasing the last of his anger away.  _I had him alone_. The words were like rusty daggers, like broken glass in his lungs.

Images assaulted his brain, making him feel ten inches tall. Hawke, discovering she was pregnant all alone, no one to share her news. Growing large with his baby without anyone to hold her hand, without anyone to do the silly little things husbands did for their expectant wives; hold her hair back during the months of morning sickness, rub her feet, help her out of chairs, run for treats she craved in the middle of the night. No one to share the fear and the anxiety and the joy. No one to put their hands on her belly and feel the baby kick. No one to hold her hand while she gave birth.

"Was the labour hard?" he asked, his voice lost.

"I nearly died. I was bleeding and...anyway. Anders saved me. He delivered him."

Fenris' mind reeled.  _She had nearly died_.

"I called for you when the pain came, Fenris," she was sobbing now. "I called your name until my voice was hoarse. You weren't here."

"I want to be here now!" he cried out, frustration mounting in him. "Isn't that enough?"

She tightened her lips to stop the tears and her trembling hand came up to cradle his face. Eyes huge with tears, her heart bleeding, she laid the most tender of kisses on his lips, making his heart clench and his breath hitch.

"It would be, if you were here because of love. Not because of obligation. I won't be your shackles, Fenris, nor will my son be the chain around your ankle. I refuse to do that. "

She turned away from him then, the motion the worst of dismissals he could ever dream of receiving, making both anger and frustration mount in him, and pain shred his insides. He reached out and grasped her hand, forcing her to turn around and face him.

"What if I was?" he asked. "What if I was here out of love, not out of obligation? What if you were dismissing me like that and I had come here intending to lay my everything before your feet? How will you live with yourself and your choice Hawke?" his voice gentled at the new tears that slipped down her face and the look of anguish that painted itself on her face. He released her hand, unwilling to cause her any more pain, but unable to dismiss the voice crying out inside him to fight, to make her understand, to do something, damn it, to get her back. "You are not offering me the slightest chance to redeem myself. What will you tell our son when he is old enough to ask why you excluded his father from his life?"

"I will tell him his father never loved me, and that I loved him enough to set him free."

This was his chance. That little voice whimpering inside was now roaring that this was his chance to tell her; if he just uttered those three little words, she would take him back. She would give him a chance. She would love him again.

For as long as lived Fenris would never stop cursing that knot in his throat, that wave of fear that rose up to choke him; he would never stop hating himself for keeping silent.

She looked into his eyes, expectant, hopeful, for a few long minutes, before her eyes closed and she shook her head on mirthless, defeated little laugh.

"And...once again, I'm so stupid...Never mind, it's better this way," she tried to convince herself. "With my luck, he'll end being a mage, and you'll hate us both for that."

Fenris eyes widened and he felt his whole life view crumble inside him. What would he do if his son turned out to be a mage? He had a vision of templars coming for a little boy hiding behind Hawke's skirts and his heart bled. Maker. The way he viewed the world shifted and tipped on its axis at the scared look on that little boy's face in his mind's eye.

No way in the entire Void he would ever allow that. He would die protecting them.

He took a step back.

"If that day ever comes, Hawke, I will be here to fight and die for you both," he said in his most solemn voice and then tipped his head. "Even if...even if I can't be his father, I promise you that."

Hawke gasped and he was just about to turn back and leave, when he just snapped. He couldn't...Maker. He couldn't. He had to...one last time. Her sweet mouth, her kiss. One last time.

He drew her in his arms and grasped the back of her head as his mouth descended on hers in a kiss that was hot as it was desperate. She readily surrendered and he plundered her mouth, kissing her with all the love, all the desire, all the longing in his lonely heart, all the anger and the frustration at having lost his last chance with her.

When the kiss ended, he turned around and left, not sparing a look behind her to see her bring a hand to her mouth in order to stifle her cry to him.

_Don't go!_

* * *

He heard a baby's cry as he was going down the stairs, so lost in thought and regret he could barely see straight. He started and his ears perked up; a gasp escaped him and he was left there, one foot suspended in mid step, as that soft mewling started picking up in volume, turning into desperate, frantic wails.

That had to be...his son.

The thought nearly brought him to his knees. Pain exploded sharply inside his heart, as if someone had thrust a rusty dagger and twisted it around. He cringed. Maker. There was a baby back there, a tiny child he and Hawke had made together. A part of him and a part of her, united forever.

In his anger, he hadn't even remembered to take a look, to see if the child looked anything like him. Did he have his eyes? His nose? Were his ears completely human or slightly pointed like most half-elves?

Maker, he hadn't even asked his son's name.

He took a step back, fully intending to go back, Maker, his son was crying, and the sound was making something unidentifiable in his soul scream for him to go back and do something to stop that heart-rendering sound. Just then, he heard Hawke's voice rise above the cries, singing a lullaby in her rich vibrato voice.

 _Hush, little baby, don't say a word_ , she sung, sadness so thick behind the words that Fenris' heart just bled.  _Mama's going to buy you a mocking bird_ , the song went on and his son's voice quieted down.

_If that mocking bird won't sing, mama's going to buy you a diamond ring._

Fenris was just at the door, walking softly as not to interrupt. He saw Hawke through the half-opened door, sitting down on the floor, a bundle squirming in her arms. Her head was bent over the child as she was singing, and the air of dejection coming off her in waves was again like a blow to the solar plexus for Fenris.

 _And if that diamond ring turns to brass,_ she went on, _her voice shaking, papa' going to..._

She paused. Her voice broke on sob.

"I'm sorry, little Fenny," Fenris heard her whisper. "Looks like you won't have a papa after all."

The name...she had given his son his own name.

Little Fenris. Fenny.

He pulled back from the door and laid his head against the wall, shutting his eyes tightly and heard her broken sobs as she cried over their baby.

He had never been more ashamed of himself in his whole life. He had allowed his regrets and his fear to make him walk out on her again; her and his son.

New determination rose inside him, making his markings suddenly give a bright, furious flash.

No. He wasn't going. He wouldn't give up. She was scared, she was pushing him away because she feared having her heart broken by him again; he would not allow it.

Fear and regret had ruled this relationship for far too long. The next step was his, and Maker help him he would take it. He would make her see. He had to, his very survival depended on it.

He walked back into that room, and neared her on silent, cat like steps. She didn't realise he was there, not until she felt him kneel on the floor behind her, and her back stiffened up. Her hands tightened around the little bundle in her arms and she turned blotchy eyes to him, shocked at his sudden reappearance.

He laid a hand on her shoulder and then leaned in to take a look at that little squirming bundle. A dark haired head and scrounged up tiny features. Pouty lips suddenly twitched into a frown and the baby started wailing again, startling Fenris; how could something so small make such a ruckus?

Hawke watched his face as he examined his son, and her heart warmed against her will. Oh, she was hopeless. He was a hard man, a cold man most of the times, but she loved him. She knew him, his stubbornness, his damnable pride, his prickly character. She knew all his quirks and hang-ups and she loved him regardless, and there was nothing she could do about it. She hadn't stopped loving him a single minute, no matter how angry she had been, no matter how hard she had tried to convince herself she was better off without him, no matter how hard she had tried to erase him from her mind and heart.

Damn him, why couldn't he love her back, just a bit, just a little tiny bit?

She watched in awe as he pulled his gauntlets off, not even taking his eyes of the infant in her arms for a second and he reached out with a trembling hand to trail a finger down a tiny, slightly pointed ear.

Fenny's eyes opened and his hazy green eyes looked around, tried to focus and then went comically cross-eyed. He started wailing again, tightly coiled little fists waving furiously.

"He has my eyes!" Fenris gasped, shocked to see something of his on another living creature.

"And your lovely temperament," she wryly said and then, emotionally exhausted, she leaned her head back onto his chest.

He huffed. "Very funny," he dryly commented. The wailing went on. "Why is he crying?"

"Colic," she just said, and then nuzzled into his neck.

Fenris heart swelled. "How do we make him stop?"

"The whole of Hightown has been wondering  _exactly_  that."

"Make my son stop crying, Hawke," he said, wincing. "The sound hurts my ears."  _And my heart_ , he silently added.

She drew her head back and shot him a withering look.

"You do it," she just said, and next thing he knew she had laid the baby is his arms and gotten up. "I'll go make some of that special tea Anders brought for him."

She spared one look at them as she was leaving and she nearly laughed out at the image of Fenris holding his son like he would a lit bundle of explosives. But just before she was ready to go back to them, his mouth quirked up into a smile and he cradled the baby closer to his chest and started rocking him back and forth.

Hawke nearly started crying again.

Well, maybe they had a chance. A small, desperate, precarious chance. Maybe Fenris wanted his son enough to actually stay long enough to feel something for her. Perhaps he had come back to stay; even if she herself wasn't enough to make him stay, his son just might. She hated the idea of tying him down, she had never wanted him to stay with her out of responsibility, but if he was determined to do it, she would take what she could.

She sent a small prayer to the Maker to forgive her. She was selfish enough to use her child to tie the man she loved to her, despite her assurances to the opposite. Shame flooded her, mixing with the joy of watching him with their son.  _Forgive me_ , she silently entreated, as she watched him smiling over his child.  _That's why I didn't tell you. I didn't know if I would be strong enough to let you_ go.  _I wasn't sure I would be strong enough to do the right thing._

She fled out of the room, tears springing into her eyes again. Maker, he was already half in love with his child, the child he had sired on a woman he felt nothing about. And if she knew anything about Fenris, it was that his sense of duty would never let him go.

She had just cost the man she loved his freedom. He was a slave again, to duty this time, when all she had wanted was his love.

Just as she was going down the stairs, she heard his amazing voice break into a soft song in Arcanum, and nearly stumbled over her feet at the beauty and the tenderness of the softly sang tune.

She would once have given an arm and a leg to hear him sing. But now it just made her hide her head in her hands and cry; distressed, forlorn sobs racking her body.

"Marian," she heard his voice behind her, and she turned a tear drenched face to him.

He was standing in the doorway, his son cradled against his chest. She absentmindedly noticed he had pulled his chest piece and leather cuirass off, and then his eyes caught hers and her heart fluttered at the soft, tender look in them.

"I love you," he said. "Both of you."

She gasped.

He just smiled at the shocked look on her face, and then chuckled softly as her knees nearly gave out and she stumbled.

"I came back to tell you that," he went on, his voice a soft caress against her frayed nerve endings. "This..." he looked at the baby cradled against his chest, and then at her, "is a precious gift I am grateful for. But you were all I wanted. All I dreamed of. All I lived for these past months. I can only hope you can love me back."

Joy burst in her heart like a star. Her world tilted on its axis and then righted itself, making her head reel and new tears, tears of happiness this time, slip down her face. All the pain in her soul bled and died, all the sorrow and the guilt and the amazing, soul-rending loneliness. Hope surged through her, love, bliss, joy, elation; until she felt dizzy with it.

"I already do," she stuttered.

He nodded, a bright smile transforming his already handsome face to that of a God.

"Good," he said. "Now, go get my boy his tea."

She nearly flew into the kitchen and to a distressed Bodahn, walking on clouds, with a smile on her face that rivalled the sun in its brilliance.

"Messere?" he asked anxiously, twisting his fingers together.

"Enchantment!" Sandal cried.

She laughed. "Enchantment indeed, Sandal!" she laughed, her first truly joyous laugh in months.

* * *

"Why is he crying now?" Fenris frantically asked for the hundredth time, making Hawke roll her eyes.

This past hour had been awkward and filled with amazing, heart-warming discoveries.

Their son had put them both through their paces; he had stopped wailing for about ten minutes when the warm tea had soothed his aching little belly for a while, allowing Fenris to examine him more thoroughly and ask her a million little questions: was she breastfeeding him or had she hired a wet-nurse? How many times did he wake every night? What day was it when he had been born? How was the labour, why had she been in trouble, where had that damned abomination been, why had he allowed the mother of his child to nearly die? Was she tired? Was he a difficult child? Had she been eating well? She looked thinner. She should eat well; she needed the extra calories to produce milk for his son.

By the end of it, she was both charmed and frustrated by his interest. She felt like a cow, like all she was good for was to produce milk for  _his_ son. She also felt like she was loved and cared for, as his eyes had examined every inch of her, looking for signs of her being tired, or not properly fed, or without enough sleep.

She had been saved from his relentless prodding by her son's indignant wails and the awful stench informing them that he needed a nappy change.

Fenris had looked over her shoulder as she had been changing the baby, turning a little green at the smell and sight, but holding on well, considering it had been his first encounter with a stinky nappy. When she had cleaned Fenny and he had happily been awaiting his new nappy, kicking up his legs feebly, Fenris had taken the chance to examine all of his son, had counted minute fingers and toes, run his calloused hands all over that amazingly soft skin.

Hawke had nearly choked on the lump in her throat.

The questions had started again once the baby was dressed and swaddled.

Are you okay? Have you had a hard time carrying him? Maker, woman, what do you mean you went on missions while pregnant? Are you crazy?

Her son's wailing saved her once again.

"Why is he crying?" Fenris cradled the baby against his chest, already holding him like a pro. His eyes widened. "He hasn't done...that, again, has he? How many times a day do babies do  _that_?"

She laughed and shook her head.

"He's hungry. It's time for his meal."

Fenris' eyes zoomed in on her chest, and then heated up. Her breasts had nearly doubled, straining against the fabric of her house robe.

"I want to watch," he whispered, his deep voice hoarse with what sounded suspiciously like longing.

Hawke's face bloomed into a blush; that heavy lidded look of desire on his face was enough to make her instantly wet.

She nodded, and then settled on the chair, passing the baby to Fenris. She fiddled with her robe, her fingers suddenly trembling and bared her breast. Fenris' eyes zoomed in on it, like magnets.

She took the baby back and settled him in her arms, his little mouth comically open as he fumbled, looking for her nipple. She led him to it and he latched on, suckling greedily, milk frothing at the corners of his mouth.

"Maker," Fenris gasped. "Lucky child."

She raised shy eyes to his face and found his skin flushed and his irises blown to nearly all black.

"Does it hurt?"

She rolled her eyes. "No more questions, Fenris," she sighed. "Maker, you're driving me crazy!"

He raised his eyes to hers and the hunger she read in them made her breath catch.

"One last question then," he breathed, his voice nearly unrecognisable, guttural with want. "Are you recovered?"

She blushed even more and then nodded. His eyes narrowed with intent.

Suddenly, Hawke found herself wishing her son would just hurry up with his meal.

* * *

She stood over her son's crib once he had finally been fed and then burped and changed again, and watched as his little pouty mouth made adorable suckling motions in his sleep. He was so angelic when he slept, a far cry from his usual brooding and crying little scrunched up face.

Fenris put a hand on her shoulder and came to stand beside her, staring down at the child they had made together.

"Were you really not going to tell me about him?" he asked, his voice hesitant. "I realise I am not the best father material, but..."

She hushed him with a finger on his lips.

"It wasn't you, Fenris," she sighed, her eyes pleading with him to understand. "It was me, and all my fears. I was afraid you would stay with us out of obligation and...I love you too much for that. You would have hated us both. I didn't want to hold you down; it would be as bad as shackling you."

He tightened his lips.  _Didn't the stupid woman realise how much he loved her?_

Then a thought struck him, the revelation making him cringe with guilt.

_No she didn't. How could she?_

He had shown her nothing of the tenderness he held so dear in his heart for her. He had treated her like a woman bought for night. It was all his doing, all his fault, if this amazing woman doubted his intentions; what he had revealed of them had been deplorably lacking.

He sighed and mentally made a note to spend every waking moment convincing her that for him, she was the very breath in his lungs, the sun that gave him life. Before she knew it, she had been drawn into a tight, bone-crushing embrace, his face buried in her neck.

"For such a clever woman, you are profoundly idiotic, Hawke."

She hummed and then chucked. "Are you calling me stupid?"

"You are," he slipped his hand in her hair, and pulled her even more flush to his body, one thigh slipping between her legs. "Shackle me, indeed! I love you, you little fool."

"You are such a romantic..." she drawled sarcastically and he had to purse his lips to keep from laughing.

"Doubt my feelings again, Hawke, and I will call you worse than stupid."

"Like what?" her hands wrapped around him, coming to rest at the small of his back, and then slip under his threadbare cotton tunic, playing against the incredibly soft skin of his lower back.

He shuddered, blood rushing instantly south to make his member twitch against the tight leather breaches.

"Moronic," he sighed and his lips trailed up her throat, his voice dropping to a breathy, husky murmur. "Obtuse," he mumbled as his lips reached her chin and then her lips and his tongue snaked out to slide against that putty lower lip that he had been dreaming of tasting again for eleven long months. She gasped and allowed him entry and he sighed before whispering, "The most harebrained little idiot to have ever breathed."

She smiled, her eyes foggy with desire as his lips hovered inches from her, his hot breath mingling with the excited little pants escaping her.

"And you," she smiled gently, "my loquacious elf, talk too much."

An eyebrow rose up and then his eyes narrowed.

"A wordless demonstration, then," he growled, and next thing she knew he was giving her one of those insanely hot kisses of his, the ones that threatened to steal the very breath from inside her lungs. She moaned in his mouth, and he swallowed down the little needy sound, meeting it with one of his own, a deep rumbling moan that vibrated his chest and set her ablaze with want.

Their son shifted in his little crib, a fist came up to his mouth and he started suckling it with an almost comical sigh.

Both adults went completely still, holding their breaths.

"How long do we have?" Fenris whispered.

"Not much," she leaned down to tuck the blanket around her son, and lightly pat his back.

"Then let's make the most of every minute," Fenris moaned, taking the chance to run his hand along her sweetly curving ass, perfectly displayed for his pleasure as she was bending over the crib.

"Pervert," she said, smiling over her shoulder. "Here I am looking after your son, and you take the opportunity to fondle me."

He shot her a predatory look and then grasped a fistful of his tunic and pulled it over his head, baring that toned, chiselled chest to her roving eyes, the silvery lyrium lines in sharp contrast with his bronze skin.

She slowly straightened up, her body instantly on fire for him, her eyes fogged up and languid with desire.

He smiled and crooked a finger, beckoning her to him with a smile. She followed his slowly retreating steps like a hypnotised woman, towards the huge bed.

Another kiss, a battle of tongues and teeth, his heady taste flooding her senses, making tremors race down her spine. She moaned his name as he ripped the robe she was wearing down her arms, pinning her arms in place with the fabric while his eyes roamed over her body. Her chest was heaving, making her heavy, milk-filled breast jiggle and quiver; a drop of milk escaped her, and he bent his head to her with a tortured groan, drawing her nipple into his mouth to taste it.

"Sweet," he remarked, purring at the taste, lapping up the drops that escaped her. "My son is a lucky boy, Hawke."

His head trailed even lower, rested against her abdomen, still a little flabby from her recent pregnancy, and his tongue came out to follow the few silvery stretch marks that now decorated her belly. If she was feeling a bit awkward about her body, if she tensed up a little at the thought he might not find her attractive anymore, her fears were soon appeased by his whispered words of affection.

He followed each line with his tongue and she struggled with the sleeves of her robe to untangle her arms from the cloth and slip her fingers through his sinfully soft hair, holding his head more closely to her flesh. His tongue trailed lower, then lower still, one hand wrapping around her to rest on her luscious ass, fondling her flesh, while the other pushed her thighs further apart.

"Maker, look at that," he sighed, at the sight of her pink flesh revealed to him under the tuft of dark hair that crowned her sex. "You look good enough to eat." His eyes met her, a hungry, greedy look darkening his green eyes. "And that, my little Hawke, is exactly what I'm going to do."

She had to bite down on her lip to stifle her cries as he did just that. There wasn't an inch of her womanly flesh that wasn't licked, kissed, stroked by that talented tongue. His tongue pushed inside her, drawing on the rich cream that was gushing from her heated centre. He was purring at her taste, the smell of her arousal, commenting with fervent whispers on the softness of her skin, on the deliciousness of her womanhood. She was trembling with want, almost frantic with arousal, bucking against him, pleading wordlessly for more. Each second she could feel her body tightening, reaching further, climbing higher. The fall was going to break her apart. She shuddered and a little keening sound escaped her as his lips closed around her clit, sucking slightly and he shushed her, humming against the exquisitely tender flesh.

"You'll wake him," he breathed against her flesh, before his tongue flicked against her and she fell apart, an orgasm rolling through her with the force of a tidal wave. She didn't care if she was making those needy, pleading sounds, she didn't care if her screams brought the house down; another shudder racked her and she felt her legs buckle. She came again, panting his name like a perverted version of the Chant.

Fenris growled and picked her up, tossing her on the bed, then quickly getting rid of his breaches and releasing his achingly aroused cock.

"Maker, I must have you!" he groaned, crawling over her like a big, dangerous jungle cat. "Let me have you. Now, Hawke."

She nodded yes, still breathless, her body still writhing with pleasure and he plunged inside her, hilting himself in one smooth, rough thrust. He threw his head back, trembling from head to toe like a stallion, praying for control.

The world ground to a halt around her, stilled, lost in that one perfect moment when the man she loved was again one with her. She hadn't realised she was empty, until he had filled her again. She hadn't realised how hungry for him she had been, until her hunger was appeased, her desire fed like oil to a fire. She'd had no idea a huge part of her had been missing, until Fenris entwined his hands in hers, thrusting them above her head and started moving inside her.

"I love you so much," she moaned and he cursed in Arcanum, then repeated the words to her, holding her gaze as his mind tried to wrap around the amazing feeling of belonging, the sheer bliss that was frying his nerve endings.

His release was already bubbling to the surface and he had to grit his teeth to try and hold back. She wasn't making things easier, the little minx, writhing against him and rolling her hips to try and take him deeper.

"Do you want another one, Hawke?" he rasped, his voice hoarse with want and she struggled through the fog of pleasure to understand his meaning. Another thrust, his cock withdrawing, slick with her cream, then surging back inside her. "Another baby," he clarified. "Do you want one?"

"Maker YES," she keened and his mouth came down on hers, drinking down her cries as he set up a frantic, brutal rhythm, shafting her with urgent abandon, taking her like a wild storm. "A little girl," she begged. "Give me another baby."

They came together, hissing, moaning at the pleasure at the incredible bliss as his seed shot inside her welcoming depths. He gave her all he was and she accepted him, wholeheartedly, no more fear, no reservations, holding his eyes as he tensed above her, and he moaned her name.

"Take me," he commanded in a sexy, husky murmur, claiming he mouth in another soul-shattering kiss as his essence bathed her core. "All of me."

She could only nod as another orgasm rolled through her at the hot, possessive rasp of his voice and then wrapped her legs and arms around his heaving body, clinging to him like a limpet.

At the crib next to them, a baby started whimpering.

"Ah, incredible timing," Fenris sighed against her shoulder, his body still racked by tremors.

She pushed against his shoulder and he resisted for just a second, unwilling to relinquish her, even to his son, before he drew back and fell on his back to the bed.

"He has pooped again," Hawke commented from the side of the crib, a robe thrown haphazardly on her.

Fenris groaned. "A party pooper, as Varric would have said."

Hawke shot him a scolding look, but there were little lines of laughter and happiness playing around her mouth. She quickly cleaned her son and then brought him to the bed with her, totally naked; it was bonding time. She cuddled against Fenris shoulder laying their son on his still naked chest.

The baby's head struggled to rise up and he opened indignant green eyes to look at his father.

"We need to talk, young man," Fenris said, a look of total contentment on his face. One hand came to cradle and support that little dark haired head and he sighed at the downy softness of his son's hair. "Sharing rights, first. You need to let papa have some time with mama if you want a little sister."

He looked over to Hawke and jerked at the sight of her tears.

"Hawke?" he gasped, his voice suddenly afraid. "If I have said something wrong, I..."

She hushed him with a kiss, one hand on her baby's back, the other on her belly where she fervently hoped another baby would soon be growing. This time, with Fenris there to watch, and strut like the proud daddy he already was.

"No. You said everything right, Fenris. More right than you know."

He smiled.

And little Fenris found the perfect opportunity to...baptise him. Fenris' eyes grew wide in alarm as something warm trailed down his chest. Hawke took one look at his face then saw the streams of pee running down his torso and the way Fenris held the baby away from him, a disgusted look on his face, and started laughing until her belly hurt.

"Son," Fenris growled, "we REALLY need to talk..."

And little Fenny just waved his fists blissfully unaware.

Then his mouth quirked up in what was the first smile of his life


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris was jerked out of his sleep by the sound of Hawke leaping out of bed, rushing for the bathing room and the first available chamber pot she could find. He propped himself up on his elbow and blinked repeatedly to clear his eyes, still fogged from sleep. A deep frown creased his face at the retching sounds coming from the small room next door, then he checked the window. It was still very early in the morning, probably a little before dawn if the silvery light coming through the window was any indication.

He stood up and prepared a wet washcloth and a glass of water for her, sighing heavily. Maker, he hated this. She was so pale and drawn; and the bouts of morning sickness came more and more frequently, at all times of day. Little Fenny was miserable as her milk had started drying out and they’d had to hire a wet nurse for him. He couldn’t be sure if it was because of her pregnancy or because she could barely eat; but she had lost weight, and she looked nothing like the way pregnant women were usually described. She was far from radiant and glowing; wretched was more like it.

He sighed again and moved over to the crib of his now almost six months old son. Little Fenny was no so little anymore. A proud, immensely pleased smile crossed Fenris’ usually stoic face; he had caught himself bragging about his son to Varric the other day until the rogue had kindly reminded him that managing to sit upright was no great accomplishment and that his son’s cooing sounds were far removed from Fenris’ articulate vocabulary.

He run a hand down the baby’s soft cheek and the little boy shifted in its sleep. Fenris withdrew his hand as he would from a nest of writhing snakes. Perish the thought that he should wake the little hellion up; he would start wailing for his mother and she would have his hide.

Hawke staggered back into the bedroom, and true to his role as a supportive partner, Fenris hastened to help her to the bed, then handed her the washrag and the glass of water. She took small, hesitant sips, trying to soothe her rolling stomach.

“This is all your fault,” she mumbled irritably and he nodded agreeably.

“Indeed, it is. I apologise. Profusely.”

“Ah,” she made a disgusted face. “Big words so early in the morning. Bleh.”

“One of my many transgressions, I have no doubt. Might I ask, though, what is it that I am to blame for this time?” he ran the wet washcloth over her face and she sighed in relief.

“You had to go and get me pregnant on the first go, damn it!” she grumbled, not appeased by his easy acceptance of guilt. “Again, I might add.”

Fenris denied the urge to remind her she had asked for another baby; he had made that mistake before, and he was not looking forward to dealing with her hormonal outbursts of shouts, tears, more shouting and then sobbing. He had very early on realised that when dealing with an irritable, grumpy pregnant woman, the best thing he could do was bow his head and say ‘yes, dear’. It saved him a lot of grief.

Unless of course she caught on to it and accused him of being patronising-cue more tears. But Hawke just yawned, then slumped back into bed and was asleep again in seconds, and he was left there, with the wet rag in his hand, looking down at her pale and drawn face, relaxed in sleep. His heart swelled in his chest. Maker. She was as sick as a dog all the time, tired and sleepy and incredibly grumpy; but she had never been as beautiful in his eyes as she was right now.

He laid a tender, careful hand on the very tiny, barely there bulge of her belly. A second baby. He was going to be a father-again. But this time he would be here to see his child being born. He cringed a little at this thought, all the possible things that could go wrong suddenly chilling him to the bone. He could lose Hawke, the baby, both of them. He could be left to raise Fenny on his own, without her.

 _Maker_ , he prayed. _Keep them safe_.

He walked to the wash basin, wrung the washrag out then left it by the side to dry. A wry smile crooked his mouth. He’d better start being nicer to Anders. He hated the man and everything he stood for, but he was a damned fine healer; and Hawke would have the best while giving birth, even if he had to bite his tongue and start treating the mage with some semblance of respect.

He returned to the bed and slipped next to Hawke spooning her from behind, surrounding her body with his, a sigh of both relief and frustration escaping him as her soft curves made his body go rigid within seconds. Anders hadn't forbidden intimacy between them, but she was feeling so wretched that he felt like a complete heel just thinking about initiating anything. Result: one very frustrated elf that went around with a permanent erection. As if having to deal with her mood swings wasn’t enough. He sighed again, then sifted on the bed, trying to make the heavy swell of his erection subside somewhat.

His eyes were drawn to the crib by the bed, as Fenny whimpered in his sleep, and with a small smile, he got up to check on his son, still amazed at how surreal the word sounded in his head.

Ah, yes. The little stinker had done it again.

 _Well, that did the trick_ , he thought as his erection went totally flaccid at the stench of his son’s nappy.

* * *

Fenris was walking in the Lowtown Market, returning from a visit to Varric who had managed to gather some information on exactly who it was that was spreading rumours about the City Guard in town. He frowned. Aveline had asked for Hawke’s assistance in the matter, but he had –for the first time- put his foot down and refused to let her go on a quest while pregnant. They had fought bitterly about it, but in the end he had just banged his hand on the table and told her to stay at home. Or else.

He shook his head. He still couldn’t believe he had actually commanded Hawke to do something, and –even more incredulous- she had agreed. She had lowered her head, and actually said “Okay, Fenris. If you insist.”

She was either arranging to slip out and go on the quest behind his back, or planning some elaborate way to assassinate him in his sleep. There was no other explanation. Hawke was headstrong and fiercely independent; no way was she was ‘submitting’ in any way to someone else, least of all to him, an ex-slave, a man that fought under her command. She had yielded to his wishes as a wife would to ones of her husb...

His step slowed, then stilled altogether. Maker. He was her husband, wasn’t he? Not in the formal way, but in any other way that counted, he was her husband. He wasn’t just a hired companion, a lover...he was her _husband_. He had some say on what she did, especially since she was pregnant with his child. His opinion mattered to her. To Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, who would have given anyone who dared oppose her the finger, followed by direct and precise instructions on where to go stick their opinion.

The staggering weight of responsibility made him wobble on his feet for a moment. He had suddenly found himself responsible for a wife -albeit one that could take care of herself exceptionally well- but still depended on him to be there to raise his children with her. He had a family that looked to him for protection. His word mattered. His opinion mattered. His woman, his children, his family. They looked up to him. He wasn’t just Hawke’s lover, her kept man, her babies’ father. She treated him as an equal, fought with him when she thought he was wrong, agreed to follow his opinion when he was right, even though it cost her. And this time, she had known he was right; she had admitted it herself.

He had never been more shackled by responsibility; and never freer. He realised for the first time that what made him free was just that. Slaves did not have families; slaves could not have families. Their masters always came first. Slaves could not make the choice to limit their freedom for someone else- _all_ their freedom belonged to someone else. Slaves could not take on responsibility or duty. Slaves weren’t free to love and to be looked on with respect- their opinions never mattered, their judgement wasn’t wanted.

He wasn’t a slave anymore. He staggered again, reeling. _He wasn’t a slave anymore_. Maker.

Being tied to Hawke and their small family had truly set him free. He was –for the first time- _truly_ free. It didn't matter that his master was still after him, that he was still running from slavers, that the perverted monster that had once owned him was still alive. He was free. A free man, a man able to make choices, a man that had made the choice to tie his life to someone else, a man who had something to live for. A willing slave to love and family, a man that had readily- joyfully- shackled himself with love and acceptance.

He was a husband, a father, the head of a family. _Free_.

It was profoundly ironic –a twisted joke of some malicious god - that this was the precise moment that he lost his newfound freedom. Struggling under the immense weight of his brand new emotions, of the awe and gratitude towards the woman that had given him more than he had ever dreamed was possible, he failed to pay attention to his surroundings. He wandered into a small side alley without even noticing...and straight into a group of slavers.

Out of focus as he was, all it took to disarm him was a blow over the head with a pommel. His last thought as he blanked out was Hawke; Hawke, the baby waiting for him at home, and the baby they were expecting. The last thing he saw was her face, her brilliant smile, the love and want in her eyes when she said she loved him, his one child in her arms and the other in her belly.

Hawke. _Hawke_. Then, nothing.

* * *

When Fenris didn't come back that night, Hawke didn't think much of it; maybe he had been caught up in the quest he had taken up on behalf of Aveline. Since they had found out she was pregnant again he was adamant she shouldn’t put herself in danger; instead he took up most of her jobs on his own, leading her group with quiet, graceful command.

She didn't know whether to be charmed at his insistence she should be kept safe at all costs, or bang her head against the wall because he was treating her like a weak, feeble little wife, that had to be coddled and wrapped in cotton so she wouldn’t break.

The fact that she felt wretched, of course, and tired all the time, plus the fact that he came home every evening dead on his feet and with scrapes and minor injuries peppering his skin, swayed her towards gratitude rather than anger. It was hard to be mad at him, even when her fierce sense of independence was threatened. Wasn’t he- for all intents and purposes- her husband? Some small concessions had to be made. She wasn’t alone anymore; her opinion wasn’t the only one that mattered. He had a say in her life now. She might not always like it, but he was her man, the father of her babies. When he banged his fist on the table and demanded she wouldn’t put herself or their unborn child in danger, it wasn’t because he wanted to control her, it was because he wanted to protect her.

She had to remember he loved her; his love was more than worth some small sacrifices, some small compromises.

She kept running those thoughts over and over in her head as the night progressed and still he didn't arrive. By morning, she was a worried, frantic mess; he had never stayed a full night away from her, not since he had returned to her side.

She sent for Varric when night rolled by again and he still hadn't arrived, only to be told that the last time Varric had seen Fenris had been the previous morning, and that they hadn't gone on the quest after all.

Her first thought was that he had left again, and the tears came, hot, blinding. The pain that slashed through her was almost physical, curling her into a small ball of misery on the bed, while her son wailed in his crib, upset that his daddy wasn’t there and his mommy wasn’t paying him attention. Varric did his best to console her, swearing a blue streak, threatening to castrate the elf. Sebastian was alerted, Aveline next, then Anders, as her tears and heart-wrenching sobs just wouldn’t abate.

Anders gave her a mild sedative, seething inside at her condition, while Aveline wore a hole in her carpet, pacing up and down, calling Fenris all kinds of names. Merrill had little Fenny in her lap, trying to cheer the baby up; he was upset at not having received any attention from neither his mommy not his beloved daddy, and was looking from one face to the other, his green eyes wide with fear as he could sense the adults’ distress but not comprehend the reason.

They all called Fenris names and swore to put him through every torture imaginable for doing this to her a second time. Varric put his army of urchin informers on the job, hoping that they would at least be able to catch up to him. They were all determined to drag him back to Hawke, even bound and gagged.

Little did they know, he was already bound and gagged, and on the way to a fate more gruesome than anything they could ever put him through.

When the first pieces of information that the elf had been taken -not upped and left on his own- reached them, they’d all looked at each other with wide eyes. They agonised about whether they should tell Hawke or not, but in the end, they realised it was for the best; she would be worried, frantic even, but everything was better than her believing that Fenris had abandoned her once more. They couldn’t have known that the fear that slashed through her would cause her to start bleeding, and as Anders threw himself into the task of saving her unborn child, the rest of her companion cringed as they heard her shout in pain and beg them to go after Fenris.

They looked at each other; the slavers had almost a full week on them, and catching up would be almost impossible. Anders couldn’t go, obviously, and Aveline had her Guard Captain duties...that left three rogues and a blood mage.

Nug shit, as Varric had so aptly said.

 

* * *

 

Fenris woke up in a dark, dingy little room, bound and gagged and with his head throbbing so hard that he thought his heart had migrated from his chest to his skull. A sickening feeling of wanting to vomit assaulted him, and he tried his best to fight it, to relax his heartbeat and erase the panic that he was feeling. If he threw up with a gag in his mouth, he could choke on his own vomit, he knew that, yet every movement made his stomach roll and his headache intensify.

He lay there, as still as he could, taking even, deep breaths through his nose. The floor was rolling; was it because he was so dreadfully nauseous, or because he was on a ship? He heard the distant, faint sound of seagulls squawking, and he got his answer: on a ship, and probably bound back to Tevinter, back to his cruel, depraved master and a life of slavery. If he were a betting man, he would bet he was being carried to Fereldan, and from there on it would be a matter of no less than two months to reach the borders of Tevinter, depending on whether the slavers were on horseback or on foot.

 _Hawke_. Hawke wouldn’t know what happened to him; she would think he’d left her. Again. Pain stabbed his heart. His beautiful, soft-hearted Hawke, whom he had put through hell and who still loved him. She would think he’d left her and feel betrayed again. She would hate him; it had taken him ages to convince her that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he would never leave her again. She still believed, deep inside, that the only reason she had stayed was because of obligation, because of his son. His son, _Maker_ , the thought of Fenny twisted the dagger in his heart around some more, until he thought he might actually start bleeding. His baby boy, his little hellion. He would never see his child again, he would never hear his first words, never watch him take his first steps, never see him grow into a man.

He closed his eyes to stop the bitter, blistering tears that wanted to escape him; he would not be around to see his second baby born; he would never learn if it was a boy or a girl. His family was lost to him. No doubt his monster of a master would do something to his mind to make him forget them and it would be as if none of them had ever existed. Fenris might cross paths with his son in a few decades, and he wouldn’t even know him. He wouldn’t even remember he’d had a son.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He wouldn’t allow it.

 _He would NOT allow it_. Not while he drew breath.

* * *

Sebastian twitched in place impatiently, as Varric and Isabela leaned over the tracks and started debating their findings under the breath. He shot a look to the Dalish elf next to him, who was busy looking at the clouds, as if she was expecting a sign from some divine power-or maybe she was playing that absurd game of hers, the one where she tried to find weird shapes in the fluffy clouds.

Lamenting his inability to read tracks properly, Sebastian turned his blue-eyed gaze towards the two rogues again. They seemed to have reached an agreement.

“Well?” he asked them impatiently once they were once again within hearing distance. “You seemed to be in disagreement back there.”

“No,” Varric sighed. “We totally agree. We totally agree that we have completely lost the fucking tracks.”

Sebastian looked from one to the other with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”

“We have been played for fools, that’s what,” Isabela groused. “I told you the trail they were leaving was too obvious,” and she shot Varric a chastising look. “I told you it was too easy, but did you hear me? I swear, Varric, I have more brains in my left tit than you have in your entire head.”

Varric pinched the bridge of his nose. “Isabela...They are slavers,” he talked like to a five-year –old. “They are usually thicker than stucco, how was I supposed to know they would have some of their men break away from the main group and...”

“Maker’s breath!” Sebastian exclaimed. “We have been following the wrong trail all this time?”

“Yes,” Isabela muttered. “Ever since we took the path that went around the mountain on the east side...while they took the west. I’m not normally a gloater, but I told you so.”

Merrill spoke up then, her sweet lilted voice interrupting what was about to turn into an argument; they were all tired and cranky, and now frustration was adding even more fuel to raging tempers.

“We could take the underground passage. It would lead us straight to the other side of the mountain, and if I’m not mistaken, that the direction those other tracks were heading to, weren’t they? To the other side of this mountain?”

Varric’s eyes widened and then he scratched his head. “I’m afraid to ask, Daisy, but ask I will anyway...what fucking passage?”

She just pointed to a swarm of bats that were just venturing out of a cave on the side of the mountain, to hunt for food in the approaching dusk. “It’s not a fucking passage...just a normal passage. It won’t fuck us.”

“Daisy...”

“Oh, that’s not what you meant...I’m sorry. I didn't realise. Well. I’ll stop babbling now.”

“DAISY!”

“There is a passage through the mountain. I saw this kind of bats on the other side too. And this stream,” she pointed to a brook that was running down the cliff side, “look, do you see? Pine trees and twigs. The other side of the mountain was full of pine forests, I saw them on the distance, but there isn’t a single pine tree on this side. I bet the passage goes right through, and we could at least gain the lost time. Of course the passage might be too small for us to go through, and there is always the risk that we might get lost or trapped, or fall into a gaping hole in the ground, but there’s no harm in giving it a go, is there? Because...”

The petite elf’s speech trailed off as she took in the astonished looks the other three members of Fenris’ rescue party were giving her. “What?” she blinked, “Oh. I have something on my face, don’t I?” her hands flew over the skin of her face, then into her hair. “Is there a bug in my hair?”

Sebastian smiled at her, a brilliant, appreciative grin, that made his crystalline blue eyes sparkle. “No, no bugs. And nothing on your face, sweetling, don’t worry.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m dying, aren’t I? There’s a bear behind me. Or a dragon, right? That’s why Sebastian is smiling at me and calling me sweet names.”

Varric laughed so hard tears nearly started running down his face, while Isabela shook her head, still looking at Merrill with awe and surprise.

“Oh, Daisy, don’t ever change!”

* * *

Fenris growled at the guard that came cautiously near him, leaving a bowl of some stew whose ingredients were nigh unrecognisable near the elf. They had made the mistake of coming too close before, and none of them was eager to repeat it. Fenris might have spent all this time with a special collar that subdued his special lyrium skills, but that didn't mean he was harmless. He was determined to make the journey as hard as possible for his captors; he would use his teeth and nails if he had to, and by the Maker, he already had, and the slavers had learned to keep their distance.

They only untied one of his hands when it was time for him to eat, and Fenris picked the bowl awkwardly, and sipped the thick broth, his green eyes never leaving the men in the clearing over the edge of the bowl. At the same time, his other hand -tied behind his back with a thick rope that coiled around both his waist and the tree trunk around him- was busy not on the bonds, but on the tree trunk. Fenris’ nails were bloodied and broken but he still insisted, gouging the tree bark behind him as best as he could, even though it felt as if his fingers were worn to the bone. If his fingers bled, so much the better; he didn't have much hope for a rescue party, but if there happened to be one, he wanted to leave a trail they could easily follow.

His hopes were raised to crash again, over and over, dark, morose thoughts chasing hopeful, optimistic ones around in his head, like a dog chased its tail. One minute he was convinced that Hawke would think he had left and no one would know of his fate. The next minute, he was almost certain that she would have known, and sent people after him, even if it was to drag him back so she could give him a piece of her mind. One minute his heart would ache at the pain of thinking of her, all alone, getting bigger with his child day by day, and the next he was happy that at least his capture meant that she would be safe from Danarius from here on, without him in her life. He wished she would come after him with one breath – and prayed to the Maker that she wouldn’t with the next one, that she wouldn’t put herself and their unborn child in such risk.

It had been two months more or less since he had been taken. In another two or three weeks, they would reach the Tevinter border. Hawke was now almost five months along, and Fenny would be crawling by now, maybe even walking, probably lisping his first words.

Had his first word –the one that Fenris had probably missed- been ‘dadda’?

Fenris blinked hard. He would not let despair show on his face. He wouldn’t allow his captors to see his anguish; they would torment him with it. They obviously had orders not to physically hurt him, because a single head on his head hadn't been touched, but that didn't mean they didn't taunt him and try to ridicule him every day. It didn't mean they tried to break him with vivid descriptions of what would be done to him once he was back in Tevinter. Especially since he had caused them delay after delay- one of them still walked with limp from a well placed kick that had splintered his shin, and another one had been left behind, after a being tripped and falling headlong into a rock.

The slaver approached him again and wordlessly asked for the bowl. Fenris narrowed his eyes, then in a lighting quick move, he threw the bowl to the man’s head with all his might. The heavy wooden bowl caught the man over his left eyebrow, and Fenris nearly laughed in malicious pleasure as he saw the slaver bring a head to his face and bend over, howling in pain.

The rest of the men sighed and the leader- a burly man with a surprising soothing, calm voice- approached and shook his head.

“No more stew for you,” he addressed Fenris with a soft, almost tender tone that never failed to infuriate the elf, “unless you behave. Come on, elf, do us all a favour. Don’t make me drug you again.”

Fenris clenched his teeth. “You are welcome to try,” he challenged the man. “But then, you will have to carry me, and you know you don’t have the manpower for that, nor the time to spare.”

Calden, the leader, pursed his lips, thinking. He motioned to one of his men, that cautiously approached them, carrying the familiar lyrium infused handcuffs that they used to bind Fenris’ wrists.

“You know the drill, elf,” he spat at Fenris. “And no funny business this time.”

“How’s the arm?” the warrior asked, narrowing his eyes, and the man flinched, bringing his hand to his still bandaged wrist, where the elf had bitten him strongly enough to nearly sever the tendons.

The slaver approached him like he would a rapid wolf, and tried to capture his arm to slip the metal cuff in place; quicker than lightning, Fenris kicked upwards, landing a crippling blow to the man’s genitals. He screeched and cupped his groin, then fell to his knees, howling in pain.

Calden sighed again, then motioned for the mage among them. “Put him under,” he commanded. “Steader, Grayson. Carry him.”

Groans and complaints echoed around the camp, while Fenris smiled a wicked, spiteful grin. He would get a good night’s sleep while they slaved away carrying him, having to slow down their pace considerably.

As the spell was being redied, he thought of Hawke one last time, hoping against all hope that she had sent a rescue party after him. He closed his eyes, waiting for the sting of the mage’s dark magic, waiting for the pain as his markings would alight.

Instead, he heard a familiar twang, as a bolt embedded itself in the mage’s chest, and opened his eyes to the sight of green vines springing from the ground to capture the slavers and keep them still. A well known figure emerged from within a cloud of smoke, daggers twirling and catching the sun; the slave leader fell dead, blood gushing from the severed artery of his throat.

He closed his eyes again, relief flooding him, as Sebastian’s worried voice asked him if he was alright, before letting three arrows fly in close succession, taking three more slavers out.

Maker. He had been so wrong not to trust in the fact that Hawke would never let him be led back to Tevinter without at least trying to help him. Overwhelming relief made him feel almost fain as the collar was released from his neck, and Varric ruffled his grimy hair.

“Okay there, Broody? You look green.”

Isabela’s amused drawl followed. “Smart move, handsome, leaving us those marks on the tree trunks. Merrill saw them.”

Fenris opened his eyes, which were strangely luminous with barely held back emotion.

“Thank you,” he just said to each and all of them. “ _Thank you._ ”

“No need for thanks, Broody,” Varric petted Bianca then slang her on his back. “Hawke would have our hides if we failed.”

Fenris asked the question he was dreading to ask. “Where is she?”

“Back in Kirkwall,” Sebastian helped him on his feet. “Anders wouldn’t let her make the journey, and trust me, she tried to. But the stress was too much for her...she had some...bleeding.”

Fenris’ eyes grew wide. “The baby?”

“Your brood is safe, Broody,” Varric cast Sebastian a miffed look. “Anders took care of her. But she had to stay in bed. Prepare to meet a very pissed off, very moody Hawke when we get back.”

Fenris cringed.

* * *

As it turned out, the Hawke he saw when he walked through the door, a month or so later, having travelled at a pace that had exhausted them all, was neither pissed, nor moody. She looked up at him, the sheet covering her bulging over her belly, with eyes swimming with tears and wobbly lips, and just stretched out her arms towards him.

He obeyed her call, gathering him up in his arms for a tender hug, mindful of her now considerable large belly, emotion wetting his eyes, his breath lodged somewhere at the back of his throat. She was so beautiful, so alluring, his Hawke, with his baby under her heart, with her calming scent wrapping around him, with her hug feeling like home. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaled her unique, fragrant scent, felt the softness of her hair under his skin.

“Fenris,” she choked. “My love. Fenris. You’re back.I can hardly believe it.” Her hands roamed all over him, checking him for injuries. “You’re back,” her voice was awed, breathless with joy, “you came back to us.”

Fenny screeched from his little crib, standing up on wobbly legs. “Dadda! Dadda!”

That was too much for Fenris, who lost the tenuous hold he had kept on his emotions from the moment they had started seeing Kirkwall in the distance. He buried his head deeper in Hawke’s hair; a broken little sob escaped him, and his shoulders started shaking as he fought against the relieved tears that threatened to escape him.

Hawke held him while he struggled not to cry, meeting Isabela and Sebastian’s eyes over his shoulder. She mouthed ‘thank you’ to her companions, tears streaming down her face. They all nodded back, solemnly, Merrill sniffling, Varric smiling broadly.

The dwarf ushered the rest of the bedraggled party out of the room, affording them some privacy, just as Fenris raised his head and captured Hawke’s mouth in a scorching, ravenous kiss.

“We can’t,” Hawke mumbled, drugged by the long, hungry kisses Fenris was leaving on her neck and mouth. “I had some bleeding. It’s not safe for the baby.”

Fenris raised his head to look at her, as if understanding her words took extra effort on his part. His breath was coming in short little excited pants, and his pupils had dilated to all black. He sobered when the words made sense, but his fingers continued working on the fastenings of her robe and the tiny buttons of her nightdress underneath.

“I just want to see you,” he whispered, his fingers trembling. “Let me see you.”

She drew the sheath over her head, then laid back for him, her eyes soft with love. Fenris’ hands shook as he trailed his hands down her neck, over the creamy mounds of her breasts, then over the distended mound of her belly. His hands stilled over his child, his eyes once again growing moist. He got up on shaky legs and moved to his son’s crib, picking the fussing baby up and cuddling him close, before carrying him on the bed and settling him next to Hawke. He then removed all his clothes and climbed into bed with them. Hawke sighed contentedly when he pulled her flush to his body, their baby laying on his chest.

“I missed you so much,” she breathed into the crook of his shoulder, closing her eyes on another happy sigh. “I couldn’t sleep without you.”

He smiled down on her sleepy face, his eyes soft, a lump of emotion in his throat. Her hand climbed up to caress his face; Fenris laid a gentle kiss on the soft skin of you palm.

“We get married tomorrow,” he announced in his hoarse baritone, kissing the base of her ring finger, then ran his tongue along the place where he was determined to place the ring that would signal to all the world that she was his.

Her eyes widened a bit, then she moaned as that talented tongue licked along her finger, her breathing hitching in her chest. “You’re supposed to ask me first,” she whispered, a shudder making its way from the top of her head down to her toes.

“Asking includes a chance of being denied. I am telling you, instead. We are getting married tomorrow. Period. I am not affording you a way out; you, my Hawke, are stuck with me.”

She leaned in to kiss him. “Regardless, the answer to the question you didn't ask is yes.”

Fenris’s lips quirked in an adorable smile, then he wrapped one arm around her, another around his son, and spent his first night home holding his family close, watching his son and wife-to-be as they slept, caressing their soft skin, breathing in their scent.

A little before morning, his unborn child gave him a hearty kick as he was once again running his chaffed, calloused fingers over Hawke’s stomach. He bit his lip, but in the end, he couldn’t help it and buried his head in the pillow, the first happy, joyous tears of his life escaping him. At some point, Hawke woke and tried to comfort him, running her fingers through his hair, crooning to him; he couldn’t stop crying to tell her that she needn’t have worried. Those were happy tears, tears of relief, tears of such overwhelming happiness that he felt his heart might burst with it.

Maybe she knew anyway, because, in the end, she just cried along with him.

* * *

Three months later, and Fenris felt like crying again, but for completely different reasons. Hawke was impossible to live with, having passed her due day by a whole week, nagging and complaining so bitterly that for a moment, he felt longing for the days the slavers had him.

“Andraste’s ass,” she grumbled once again, waddling like a duck under the weight of a huge belly. “I swear if this child of yours doesn’t decide to come soon, I’ll make Anders cut it out of me.”

Fenris paled. “That is not remotely funny, Hawke,” he protested, helping her along the hall towards the kitchen.

She sent him a scathing, fuming look. “You try being bloated like a beached whale, buster,” she spat, “and then we’ll see how funny it is.”

They entered the kitchen, where the rest of the group was waiting for them, to be greeted with the improbable sight of Varric trying to feed their son his oatmeal, while the rest of the group laughed and riled the dwarf, who was covered in sticky goo from head to toe.

“Hey, belly,” Varric smiled broadly, obviously enjoying himself despite the teasing. “Hey, Hawke.”

Hawke took a seat carefully, Fenris helping her. “What’s with the double greeting?”

“Well, your belly _did_ get in the room first, Hawke,” Varric waved the spoon around. “About three minutes before you, so I had to greet it first.”

Hawke growled at him, then turned to Fenris, who quickly wiped the smile off his face, and pretended to scowl at the dwarf.

“She is not fat, Varric, she is pregnant.”

Varric’s eyes twinkled. “It would take two of you to hug her; in my book, that’s fat.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. “Watch it, Varric,” she threatened. “Fat or not, pregnant or not, I can still whip your ass.” Then she turned on Anders, scowling at him. “You. When is this baby going to come? Do something.”

The mage swallowed heavily at the look of menace on her face. “Why are you angry at me? I’m not the one that got you in this condition.”

Fenris cringed, and shot the blond mage a look that promised retribution.

“Why don’t you have sex?” Merrill interrupted, naively looking from one to the other. “I’ve heard it helps. The Keeper always used to say that...what?”

The whole table started laughing at the blushing looks that Fenris and Hawke sent each other; Fenris’ ears had grown so red that one might think they might start smoking soon.

Anders rubbed his chin. “You know, she just might be right.”

Varric chuckled again, before picking up Fenny with an ease that spoke of how many hours he spent with the boy. “Okay, lad, this discussion is not for your little ears,” he told the baby. “Uncle Varric will tell you a story while your daddy goes poke your little sibling in the eye.”

Fenris’ eyes grew comically wide, but Hawke struggled to her feet with some effort and grabbed his hand. “Let’s go, Fenris,” she dragged him behind her. “This baby is getting out of me, even if I have to tie you to the bed.”

Isabela hooted with laughter at the near panicky look that Fenris sported as Hawke pulled him behind her to their bedroom.

“Hawke!” she cried after her friend, “I know what could make you give birth...how about watching Fenris have sex with me?”

All she got as an answer was a shocked gasp, and then silence for a few long minutes, then another gasp. Then more silence, which was abruptly broken when a small, scared voice said: “my water just broke.”

* * *

“So, Hawke,” Varric rocked side by side, to keep the baby on his shoulder sleeping. “What’s this little cutie-pie’s name? Have you decided? Or are we waiting for Fenris to come round to tell us?”

Fenris caught the last sentence as he was walking into the room, Fenny in his arms. “I slipped,” he grumbled for the hundredth time.

Varric pursed his lips. “Suuure, Elf,” he chuckled, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “You slipped. We believe you.”

“I did!”

“Ah-ha. First you went pale, then you started shaking, and then alas! You slipped and fell.”

Fenris put Fenny down on the bed so his mother could cuddle him, then crossed his arms and scowled. “The floor was wet.”

“Yeah, right. Do pigs fly?”

“Given sufficient thrust, yes, they most certainly do.” Fenris insisted, mortified at having blanked out at the sight of Hawke giving birth. He shuddered. The blood and the...fluids. And that little head, covered in...ugh... poking out from between her legs. Her screams. The grotesque grimace of pain her face had been twisted in. And that wet, slurping sound as his daughter had slipped out of Hawke’s body, covered in unmentionable fluids and gore.

“Are you going to slip again, Elf?”

Fenris put out a hand to support himself on the wooden post, visibly green. “Maker help me, but I think I just might,” he admitted.

Hawke laughed, then motioned for Varric to give her daughter to her. The dwarf obliged her and she cuddled her new baby, opening the blanket so that Fenny could see his little sister for the first time. Her firstborn stuck a fist in his mouth and looked on the sleeping girl with wide eyes, before his little face scrounged up and he started wailing at the sight of his mother holding a baby that wasn’t him.

“Oh-oh.” Varric told Fenris, covering his ears with his hands. “The green-eyed monster raises its ugly head. Sibling rivalry. I don’t envy you, Elf.”

Fenris sat at the edge of the bed, and drew his son onto his lap, his eyes on the small head and tiny hand poking out of the blanket, his eyes soft with awe and wonder. He rocked Fenny absentmindedly, then started whispering to him, his voice smooth and soft as velvet. His gaze was riveted on the dark-haired baby in his wife’s arms, the look of utter adoration in his Hawke’s eyes, the tears of happiness and love glistening in them as she run a finger down her daughter’s scrounged up face.

“This is Bethany, your sister, Fenny,” he whispered to the baby, that was immediately captivated by the silky, smooth baritone of his father’s voice, made just a little gravely with barely held back emotion. “You are her big brother. You must always protect her and love her, no matter what. No doubt she will be wilful and obstinate like her mother, and won’t always allow it, but you must always do your very best to protect her and shield her; she is a Hawke female, and they are precious. Do you hear me, son?”

Varric sighed. “On second thought, I do envy you. You lucky son of a b..”

“Language, Varric,” both parents chided him at once.

Varric was taken aback a little. “Well. Nug...,” a strict look from both Hawke and Fenris made him bite back his preferred word. He sighed again, kissing his favourite expression goodbye.

“Nug...manure,” he finally said.

Little Fenny looked up and then smiled and corrected him, lisping “ ‘ug thit” in his adorable baby talk.

Varric scrambled to get out of the room, the voices of both parents threatening to castrate him for teaching their son to swear following him down the stairs.

 


End file.
